Salvation
by ThinkGirl
Summary: Or the AU wherein a female assassin clad in black captures the Green Arrow's attention. A series of Oliver/OC one-shots in non-chronological order. #2 - Tattoos & Piercings: Sometimes, Oliver thinks he forgets the world is burning because he's so focused on the way the flames make her eyes dance.
1. Questions & Answers

**Questions & Answers **

_Oliver didn't think it was possible to become so completely intoxicated by someone, and yet, here he is._

Oliver is watching over the city, stomach pressed into the cold railing on a rooftop, when he hears the muffled thud of someone landing behind him. He isn't easily surprised by anyone; he can count on one hand the number of people that could get close enough to land without him knowing, all of them highly dangerous. He turns around, already tensing for a fight, when he recognizes the masked figure.

Taylor.

Of course she blindsided him. He doesn't quite posses her ability to identify people by their tread. She's tried teaching him, but it seems his affinity for languages doesn't encompass the non-verbal, although he isn't hopeless at all of them: he understands just fine how she feels by the delighted grin she flashes him as she straightens up from her landing position.

At almost six feet, she cuts an intimidating figure in tight black leather pants and a gold-trimmed jacket. Her thigh-high boots and gloves match the jacket, both with hardware a similar gold, one that makes her caramel skin glow. The utility belt that encircles her waist holds two guns and several rounds of ammunition, and two sheaths on her upper thighs hold a dozen knives each, along with the several dozen in her jacket. Her dark, almost black, hair is pulled back into a slightly rumpled but tight French braid, exposing a gold arrow cartilage bar and simple gold studs in her earlobes. He once thought the mask she chose to conceal her identity was strange – the black fabric surrounds both her eyes but pulls away from the left side of her face to reveal a mouth painted a racy blood red – but now that he knows the story behind it, he recognizes that it is to her what the hood is to him. It is a reminder of what she fights for.

Standing right there, across the rooftop from him, in a suit so reminiscent of Laurel and a taste in jewelry so reminiscent of Felicity, but most of all, a personality so reminiscent of his that their mind are all but mirrors, he can't help but think that she is the best and worst possible person: best, because neither Felicity nor Laurel are or were anything but the best, and worst, because, what else is he? A hollow reflection in a broken mirror. Nothing more.

For the longest time, he went back and forth between pushing her away to protect her from the darkness and pulling her close because of his own selfish need to have her near. Then he watched her kill and realized that the only way he could protect her was to keep her close, and while he's still not entirely sure what instinct made him draw that conclusion, the bottom line is that he trusts his gut. As it is, he hasn't spent a lot of time thinking about it, and for one simple reason – he's afraid what answers he may find.

It isn't the answer itself – he has a pretty good idea of what it will be already – but the fact that something definitive will result in him not being able to pretend that this woman means that he will never be the same again.

And while he thinks, sometimes, that their similarity goes as far as their feelings for each other, he doesn't _know_. He's found time and time again that the eye only sees what it wants to, and it doesn't seem like such a stretch to extend that metaphor to matters of the heart.

"What do you think?" she asks in a tone that's a little breathy and a lot excited, more so because her synthesizer is turned off. The phrase "Girl in a brand new dress" comes to mind, as she practically skips over to where he leans against the railing, the action pulling the corners of his mouth up without his permission. He thinks the fact that she's giddy about a new suit with enough weapons for a small platoon and not a sundress or an evening gown makes better fuel for irony. Still, he can't help himself as he runs an eye up her body at the way the fabric clings to her decidedly feminine figure.

Several words cross his mind in reply to her question – _breathtaking, beautiful, bold_. "Badass," he says instead.

Her mouth lifts at that, the crimson taunting him, and she laughs. "Real smooth, Green," she quips, coming to a stop inches away from him. He allows a breathy chuckle to escape at that. It's strange, how, when he's around her, he's both at his most open and his most guarded.

There was a time when he didn't think such a contrast was possible, but he didn't think it was possible to become so completely intoxicated by someone, either, and here he is.

"Ready?" he asks, expression turning serious. Any more time spent on this rooftop means more time spent thinking about her. And any more time spent thinking about her might just mean he'll admit what he knows to be the truth to himself - and that truth will be his undoing. But then, she has always been his salvation, so what becomes of him then? He's not sure he _wants_ to know the answer to that.

She just nods in reply, the seriousness that slips onto her face not entirely able to obliterate the gleam in her eyes. He pauses to pull his hood over his face before shooting a rappelling arrow into the concrete in front of him. She moves toward him immediately – one of a hundred actions that have somehow become routine. In a movement that feels almost as familiar as breathing itself, but he knows shouldn't, he wraps an arm around her waist as her arms go around his neck. He hooks his bow over the steel cable and jumps off the roof with a running leap in one swift motion. When he lands, a small smile inches its way across his face.

When he's around her, everything feels almost as familiar as breathing.

* * *

A/N- This is me trying my hand at Arrow fanfiction. Hopefully I'll be as obsessed as I am with the show, but exam year means there won't be vary frequent updates (not that I'm very frequent even otherwise, but...)

I would love to hear anything you have to say, but if not, thanks for taking the time to indulge the castles I build on air. Having said that, it would totally make my day if you were to follow this work. Just saying. ;)

Affly,  
M


	2. Tattoos & Piercings

_Tattoos & Piercings_

 _Sometimes, Oliver thinks he doesn't notice that the world is burning anymore because he's so focused on the way the flames make her eyes dance._

He watches her on the balcony, stomach pressed into the railing, one hand clutching the metal bar and the other holding a wine glass. The image reminds him of all the times he's seen her watching over the city on a rooftop, but everything about this picture seems so much softer; when she's in her suit, with the tight clothing and the glinting weapons and the expert French braid, the only word that comes to mind is _severe_.

He notices for the first time that the grey sweatshirt she has on is the one he left behind at her place, a few weeks ago. The sight awakens something animal in his gut that he has to concentrate to suppress. (And maybe he can't fully suppress it, but he's not about to admit to _that_ ).

The neck is stretched out, and it falls over one shoulder, exposing thin straps of turquoise blue and inked lettering in a foreign script on her dark skin. He's seen the tattoo before, when stitching up some of her wounds – and the one fateful time they were forced to change in front of each other is a broom closet – but never had the chance to ask about it. In spite of himself, he crosses the room to her, reaching out to trace the lines when he's close enough. She doesn't tense even the slightest under his touch. Instead, he can feel her relax beneath his fingers.

Is it wrong that this tortured soul who he's known for all of six months has learned his touch well enough to anticipate it? And is it wrong that that knowledge sparks something in him that he has to hastily box and try to forget, because he's sure it will keep him up at night? Oliver doesn't know. He's always been more of a sinner than a saint anyway.

She turns her head slightly to face him and his fingers still out of habit. How can a man be expected to think about anything but her when they are this close? Sometimes, he thinks he doesn't notice that the world is burning anymore because he's so focused on the way the flames make her eyes dance.

"It's Devanagiri script. It says 'Asha', meaning hope in Hindi." She flashes him a wry smile over her shoulder. "I got it right before I left for Israel. Turns out I really needed it." Something dark flickers across her expression for the tiniest of moments - something he's never seen on her face before, although he recognizes it.

It's what he saw when he looked in the mirror five years ago.

He remembers the darkness that threatened to consume him every day when he first returned from the island. _You can take the person out of the darkness, but you can't take the darkness out of a person._ He remembers the quote vaguely, not sure where he's heard or read it, but sure that it resonates with him. After all, something made him put on that hood and he knows now that it wasn't just to right his father's wrongs.

He returns her smile. "Fitting. You're this city's hope." He doesn't tell her the other thing he wants to say – _you're my hope_. She scoffs in reply.

"Me, who slings knives at drug-dealers in the Glades and still can't control her killing impulse? I don't think so, Oliver." The disbelieving quality to her voice pierces his heart: she is one of the strongest, bravest, most personable women he's ever met. He thinks it might hurt even more than when he stabbed himself with an arrow: at least that could be healed by surgery.

"No," he replies, tone firm and jaw set. "You, who has reduced the crime rate in the Glades by half and has helped the SCPD make over two dozen arrests." She tilts her head to one side as if to say, " _Really?"_ , but he isn't done. "You need to learn to see the good in yourself. You can see it in everybody else."

She just smiles – one of her dry, humorless smiles that highlight the hauntedness in her eyes and the ghosts that keep her up at night – and then scoffs again. "You can't see something that isn't there, Oliver." She turns her gaze to the city lights glittering below. "Other people actually have some good in them."

* * *

A/N- Here's number two! It took me exactly one month to get this done, which is kinda ridiculous, considering I've written all of seven hundred words, but my commitment-phobic muse had plans of its own. It has apparently moved on, but I've got a few ideas in my head of where to take this, and it would only help if you were to give me some feedback.

I would love to hear anything you have to say, but if not, thank you for taking the time to indulge my girlish fantasies. It would totally make my day if you could favourite this, though. Just saying ;)

Affly,  
M


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